


To serve the self-crowned King: Disrupting Best Laid Plans

by MadeItUp



Series: To serve the self-crowned King [2]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: A flimsy plot though, Canon Divergence, Dirty Talk, Diverges from end of season 1, Flirting, Jim swears a lot, Kissing, Lots of kissing, M/M, Porn With Plot, Power Dynamics, Power Play, Reference to anal sex, Smut, gobblepot, no Lee
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-22
Updated: 2019-10-22
Packaged: 2020-12-27 23:57:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21127400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadeItUp/pseuds/MadeItUp
Summary: Jim Gordon can't stop thinking about seeing Oswald in his apartment - and all the things he never got a chance to do to him. When he receives an invitation to dinner, Jim decides it's time to take exactly what he wants from the Penguin of Gotham.





	To serve the self-crowned King: Disrupting Best Laid Plans

**Author's Note:**

> Second part of a series that should probably be one work divided into chapters - sorry!
> 
> I switched to Jim's viewpoint for this because looking at Jim Gordon is like admiring a particularly attractive bread roll, but Oswald Cobblepot is a five-course tasting menu prepared by a Michelin starred chef. There is nothing wrong with bread rolls, but I wanted a tastier meal.
> 
> Rated mature because it's more about the implications than the activities.

Jim found it hard not to think of him. Every time he walked into the bullpen someone would say his name.  
  
_Penguin…Cobblepot…_  
  
He’d gone to ground more effectively than ever. Jim and Harvey had been to all the usual haunts: The Umbrella Club; his penthouse; restaurants; bars; the whole shebang. Nothing. Not so much as a whiff of that expensive cologne Jim had inhaled straight from his skin…  
  
That had been a surprise. To find out how fucking good Oswald Cobblepot smelled. From afar, Jim had always thought him a little grubby, a little greasy. That fine black hair and blotched skin. The teeth.  
  
Up close and personal, things had been different. He’d smelled _divine_, for a start. Exclusive and delicious, like something worth tasting. His hair and his skin and _Jesus fucking Christ_ everything about him had Jim yearning for more than he’d had chance to take. His brain had become too fogged with lust to focus on anything else for long. Which worked out just fine when finding Oswald Cobblepot was GCPD’s number one priority.  
  
“Can’t you just call him?” Harvey said, collapsing back in his chair after another fruitless search.  
  
“Like I know his number.”  
  
Judging by the look he gave Jim from under the brim of his hat, Harvey wasn’t buying it.  
  
“Like I’m gonna believe you don’t.”  
  
Jim held his phone out, but Harvey waved it away. “Whatever, if you’re offering me a look I know I’m not gonna find it. But for real. If you know where he is, it would save an awful lot of unnecessary legwork.”  
  
“If I could, I would. You know me.”  
  
Jim glanced down at the blank screen of his phone as he tucked it back into his pocket. Nothing there from Penguin. Which stung.

xxx

He got back late. Slotting the key into the lock, Jim pushed the door open, thinking of the dent he planned to make in the bottle of Scotch he’d bought on the way home. It was only once he was through the door, half out of his coat, that he saw the gift that was waiting for him: a suit that glowered the same grey as the Gotham sky in the window beyond. The material hung perfectly, subtle stripes flowing down the length of the jacket and pants. When Jim ran a finger inside the lapel, he felt the softest caress of a silk lining and a weight inside the pocket.  
  
Pulling it out, he studied the slender foil tube and laughed.  
  
Lube. The expensive kind where a little went a long way.  
  
The shirt that hung inside the suit jacket was a thick white cotton and a tie hung from beneath the collar. Silk again, a purple the depth of a fresh bruise with a tiny little umbrella embroidered onto the tip.  
  
A suit like this could pay his rent for a month or more.  
  
There was a square of embossed card peeping from the breast pocket. On it today’s date, a time, a location and a simple instruction.  
  
_I shall see you there_.  
  
Jim tucked it back into the pocket of his new suit and grinned.

xxx

The address on the card wasn’t so far from Jim’s apartment, but walking there was to step from one world and into another. This was a street where destinations advertised themselves through easy-to-miss signs and the presence of a suit by a door that only opened for those with a key.  
  
The man checked Jim’s card and waved him down into the belly of the building. At the bottom of the stairs there was the choice of a cloakroom, a corridor leading to the bathrooms, or a heavy velvet curtain. Pulling it aside, Jim found himself looking at a different breed of club from The Umbrella – dark wood and low lighting that spoke of private conversations between members whose names were meant to be forgotten.  
  
Butch Gilzean was sitting at the end of the bar, receipts and paperwork stacked next to him, a tumbler of ice and vodka acting as paperweight. When he saw Jim, Butch’s mouth levelled into a disapproving line, but he directed him with a glance toward the back of the room where round, mahogany tables sat inside the privacy of high-backed booths.  
  
“I’ll just get a drink,” Jim said, rewarded by immediate service from the woman behind the bar, who poured him a double of a special occasion Scotch with a single ice cube. When he reached into his jacket for his wallet, Butch waved him away.  
  
“Anything Detective Gordon orders is on the house.” The look he gave Jim came loaded with threat.  
  
Jim raised his drink. “Thank you.”  
  
“Any friend of Penguin’s is a friend of mine.” Butch ground the pleasantry out in the least pleasant way possible.  
  
_Friend_.  
  
Leaving Butch to his accounts, Jim made his way through the room, his eyes ahead so that there was no chance of seeing something he’d feel obliged to act on. Bad enough that he was there to see the GCPD’s most wanted…who was sitting there, at the end of the room, a slim figure in the centre of the booth, his table laid for two. When he saw Jim, he stood, his smile the welcome reserved for the man who’d saved his life, no matter what had happened since.  
  
The habitual welcome fell away as Penguin saw what Jim was wearing, mouth narrowing to a pinch, nostrils flaring in frustration.  
  
“Penguin.” Jim slid into the booth next to his host and laid his Scotch on the table.  
  
“Detective Gordon.” Penguin sat, face drawn tight in irritation as he side-eyed Jim’s clothes. “Was there something wrong with the suit I sent you?”  
  
“No.” Jim took his phone from inside his jacket and opened it up on the photo he’d taken in the mirror. Pushing it across the table he watched Penguin’s reaction as he took in the sight of Jim in that perfectly tailored suit, collar buttoned to the top, tie set straight down his chest.  
  
Then he stretched his arm to rest across the back of the seat, body drawing closer so that it wasn’t so far for him to lean in and put his lips to Penguin’s ear.  
  
“The suit isn’t the problem.” Jim breathed him in, letting the smell of his hair, his skin, work their magic. “The problem is that you think you can buy me –”  
  
Penguin’s gaze switched from the phone to Jim’s face.  
  
“– a professional favor given free of charge, a fancy suit and fine dining.” Jim ran his nose lightly up the back of Penguin’s ear and resisted the temptation to draw the soft, pink skin of his lobe into his mouth. “You can’t buy someone who _owns_ you, Penguin.”  
  
He sensed the frown that came with the name.  
  
“Sorry,” Jim murmured. “I forgot we were on first name terms.”  
  
He was rewarded with a smile, a tug at the corner of those wicked lips.  
  
“I can’t be bought by you,” Jim carried on, enjoying the drag of Oswald’s breath, the slow blink that came from wanting something just out of reach. “Not when I know what it feels like to have you hard in my hand, to hear the way you breathe seconds before you can’t.” Oswald’s next breath trickled in through his lips. “Not when I know how you taste.”  
  
That got his attention. Oswald’s head snapped round, brows lowered in confusion.  
  
Jim smiled and leaned back, the hand not on the back of the booth already resting lightly on the rim of his glass. Carefully, not taking his eyes off Oswald, Jim dipped two fingers into his glass to swirl them through the liquid.  
  
“I had to clean up somehow,” Jim said, lifting his fingers to his mouth and lightly sucking the Scotch from his skin.  
  
The intensity with which Oswald watched him could have burned the clothes from Jim’s body, pupils blown wide in those cold, pale irises. When he caught the way he was breathing, Oswald pressed his lips shut, throat bobbing in a self-conscious swallow.  
  
Jim had never had someone look at him like that, naked desire secured within a fortress of repression. Unlocking it was going to be a lot of fun.  
  
Taking a sip of his drink, Jim took note of how well his companion’s clothes fitted his frame, the flash of pale skin between collar and jaw. His gaze lingered on Oswald’s ears a moment before his attention swept across his face, the arch of his brows and the petulant line of his lips.  
  
He wished he’d kissed him when he had the chance, so he would know how it felt to have his tongue in his mouth, the sound of his breath filling his ears and what those lips felt like on his…  
  
He only realised he was staring when Oswald’s mouth bowed into a self-satisfied smirk.  
  
“You look distracted, Jim.”  
  
“Thinking about that pretty little mouth wrapped around my cock,” Jim said without hesitation, enjoying how quickly a single sentence could unseat someone so used to being in control.  
  
“Given that the last time we saw each other you tried to arrest me…”  
  
“That was just for play.”  
  
Oswald gave him a peevish frown. “I was referring to your invitation to accompany you to the police station.”  
  
Jim set his glass back down on the table, avoiding Oswald’s eye. “Not an arrest.”  
  
“Call it what you want, it’s a long way from what we’d been doing half an hour before.”  
  
“Maybe if you didn’t insist on breaking the law in every way possible –”  
  
“Let’s not exaggerate.”  
  
“Let’s not piss me off.”  
  
Oswald smiled and Jim scowled, annoyed at how easy he’d made it. This was not how tonight was going to go. There would be no wrestling for control over the conversation. Jim was in command, not Oswald.  
  
“Are we really going to talk shop?” Jim said, giving Oswald a slow, thoughtful stare that had him shifting in his seat before reaching for his water.  
  
“What else would you suggest?” Oswald took a sip, pressed his lips together as if to dry them and twitched his brows in question. “The weather? The best place to get a donut? The Gotham Goliaths’ chances in the next game?”  
  
“And what team is that then?”  
  
“You caught me. I don’t follow sports,” Oswald said with a dismissive little chuckle.  
  
Jim wondered what would happen if he launched himself across the booth and savaged him with a kiss, hands working that cravat loose and tearing the shirt from his body. He looked out across the room, the booths shadowed in secrets and the staff moving effortlessly between the tables, plates of food delivered and cleared so discreetly that diners barely recognised it had happened.  
  
“You made a mistake inviting me here,” Jim said.  
  
“I did?” Oswald’s eyes met Jim’s.  
  
So cautious. So cold. So fucking hot.  
  
Jim allowed himself a smile and edged over until his thigh sat along Oswald’s. He kept his arm across the back of the seat still, but the other came across under the table to rest lightly on Oswald’s thigh, one finger circling lightly over the material. He turned his head so that he was looking out across the room, same as Oswald, head nudging his, mouth lined up with the shell of his ear.  
  
“Do I really have to spell it out?”  
  
Oswald nodded. Breathed. Looked set to implode.  
  
“Well. This is a public place. We’re here to have dinner, where people can see us.” Jim picked his moment carefully, when there was no staff crossing the floor, no heads turned their way, and raked his teeth along Oswald’s ear, fed off the reaction he got for it. “Imagine if instead of coming home to a new suit, I’d come home to find _you_…”  
  
He curled his fingers over, nails scratching into Oswald’s thigh as he drew his hand a little further up. Oswald’s breathing changed paced and he tensed beneath the contact.  
  
“Are you imagining?” Jim asked.  
  
Oswald nodded. That same tight little nod as when Jim had him pressed up the wall, wanting to know if he was enjoying it.  
  
“You and me, in my apartment. In the bedroom…” His fingers flexed and gripped Oswald’s leg a little tighter at the thought of seeing him stripped of his suit and shirt, nowhere to hide a weapon, nowhere to hide how he felt. “My cock in your hand…”  
  
He rubbed his leg.  
  
“…in your mouth…”  
  
Oswald had stopped breathing entirely.  
  
“… balls deep in your -”  
  
“Gentlemen, if you’re ready to -”  
  
Oswald’s hand flashed out, the knife that had been lying on the table aimed purposefully at the young man standing next to it.  
  
“Go. Away.” An instruction hissed out in desperation, eyes wild. “Or I will _gut_ you.”  
  
But as the waiter backed away, Jim dug his fingers in so hard that Oswald winced.  
  
“Call him back and order our food.” He anticipated the hesitation that followed and squeezed harder. “Do it now.”  
  
And he slid back across the booth, letting his arm fall from where it had been resting behind Oswald’s shoulders. He watched, enjoying the snarl of, “_Actually_…” that Oswald used to summon the waiter back, pretending nothing unusual had happened as he placed the knife back on the table cloth and arched his brows at the menu. A second-long consideration preceded an order of the risotto then, with a resigned eye roll, the steak, medium rare.  
  
Exactly what Jim had wanted.  
  
There was a lot to be said of having the attention of someone so perceptive – who happened to be Gotham’s most ruthless criminal. A man who thought nothing of betraying those who trusted him and slaughtering those too slow to get out of his way. When Oswald had picked up that knife, it hadn’t been a joke.  
  
_Shit_. Any time Jim’s brain caught up with what he was doing panic coursed through his body, binding him still for a second before it left, expecting him to act on the warning.  
  
And yet Jim was still here, eye-fucking the man next to him and contemplating exactly how tight he could wind him before he came apart entirely.  
  
Oswald glanced at Jim and gave a tight smile. “Excuse me a moment.”  
  
Jim watched him walk away. In a city like this, where someone with enough money could buy a new face or ‘borrow’ a body part to replace one they’d lost, for Penguin’s leg to remain the way it had first healed was one hell of a statement. A reminder of how savage Gotham could be, how it could bite any of the hands from which it fed. And it had bitten Oswald Cobblepot hard enough to leave an injury grown into a man whose strength lay in surviving.  
  
Jim knocked back the last of his drink and went to follow him.  
  
He had to pass Butch, who glowered from the accounts but made no move to stop him as he slipped back out through the curtain and made for the bathroom.  
  
On the far side of the door was a room bigger than Jim’s apartment – granite floor and luxurious gold-patterned wallpaper. There were no urinals, only a long row of cubicles, the angle of the doors indicating that none of them were occupied. Opposite, where hammered brass sinks shimmered within a long marble washstand, stood Oswald.  
  
Back to the door, elbows locked as he leaned forward, hands heavy on the lip of the washstand as he glared at his own reflection in the mirror above.  
  
When he saw Jim, his glare switched to him.  
  
Saying nothing, Jim walked over, slow, measured steps until his thighs brushed against the back of Oswald’s. Without breaking eye contact, he rested his hands on the other man’s hips, slowly running his thumbs down the curve of his ass, admiring how still Oswald’s reflection remained when Jim _knew_ that his pulse was thrumming fast enough to rival the wingbeats of a wasp.  
  
Watching him in the mirror, Jim lifted a hand to the back of Oswald’s head, scraping his fingers through his hair and getting enough purchase to give it the slightest tug as he ran the thumb of his other hand down the crease of his ass.  
  
A blink. One that was a little too brief to completely hide the eye roll beneath.  
  
Hooking his hand over Oswald’s belt and waistband, Jim pulled him back, hard, shifting his hips to rub against him. Pulling on his hair, he dragged Oswald upright until his head was near level with Jim’s, both of them still looking in the mirror, watching as Jim brought his hand down, fingers raking through neatly trimmed hair before running down Oswald’s face, thumb tracing the sharp line of his jaw and, unable to resist, he pinched Oswald’s lower lip, revelling in the gasp he got for it, finger slipping into his mouth -  
  
“_Ow_.” Jim snatched his hand away with a hiss and took a step back. “What the hell was that for?”  
  
“I bite, you stop,” Oswald said, although his breathing was uneven and he was tugging at the material of his pants. When he looked up once more, his eyes shone a dangerous shade of blue. “Our food will be at the table shortly.”  
  
“Then why’d you come in here?”  
  
Oswald directed a pointed look over Jim’s shoulder at the cubicles beyond. “To use the facilities. Why? Did you think I wanted something else?”  
  
Jim’s finger throbbed. That hadn’t been a playful nip, it had been a full-on bite. A warning that Oswald hadn’t yet been tamed.  
  
“I know you want something else,” Jim said. “And I know I’m the one you want it from.”  
  
“I don’t want a sordid little encounter in the men’s bathroom.”  
  
“Says the man who sucked his own cum from my fingers.”  
  
Oswald’s nostrils flared, jaw tensing a moment before he forced himself to relax, but Jim wasn’t in the mood to play nice.  
  
“I know you, Oswald. I _see_ you. You want me in the filthiest way I’m prepared to offer because you know that’s what you deserve.”  
  
Jim saw the flip the moment it happened. The decision to step back with a quick breath and a forced smile, a bland front to hide what Oswald was really thinking, what he really wanted.  
  
Jim felt a twist of regret that he was the one who’d forced it.  
  
“I’ll see you back at the table,” Oswald said.

xxx 

The food arrived as Jim returned – a steaming bowl of risotto that smelled of the same truffle oil that had been worked into the sauce of Jim’s steak. The waiter who’d taken their order was the one who served them, eyeing Oswald nervously as he laid a steak knife next to Jim’s plate.  
  
“Don’t worry,” Jim murmured. “I’ll keep him under control.”  
  
Oswald said nothing, merely kept his eyes on Jim, one brow arched dubiously. Cocky, after his little rebellion in the bathroom.  
  
The barricades were up and reinforced and Jim spent the meal pondering how to dismantle them without giving Oswald the advantage. The thrill of finding out that he, Jim Gordon, could reduce the Penguin of Gotham, the man who ruled the underworld, to a biddable bundle of desire was something he’d come here to capitalise, not concede.  
  
If Oswald prodded at their dynamic too hard, it would fall apart in an instant.  
  
He needed to remain oblivious to how much power he really had over Jim. Not with the favors he bestowed or the money he spent, but by simply _existing_. He smelled like an addiction and looked like a fucking ride, smooth words and wicked curves – his jaw and his eyebrows and the sneering flow of his lips. The way he breathed and the feral energy of someone who didn’t know the meaning of boundaries…  
  
Jim had to stop and take his jacket off in an effort to cool down and force his thoughts away from all the things he’d been dreaming up since Oswald had seen him in uniform.  
  
He had a choice: play it safe and walk away, let Oswald stew in his own desire or tease it out of him once more, a careful balance of whispers and caresses that would lead away from the table and into the bedroom.  
  
Who was he kidding?  
  
Between the bottle of wine that had been served with their meal and the way Oswald’s gaze kept glancing off his own, Jim wasn’t about to walk off and wait for another day.  
  
“I’m sorry about what I said earlier,” Jim said, setting his cutlery down on a mostly empty plate.  
  
“Oh?” Oswald had already finished and was taking a sip of his wine, tongue running lightly across his lower lip before setting the glass back down. “Tell me, Detective, what exactly is it you’re referring to?”  
  
“Detective?” Jim twitched a smile. “I have upset you.”  
  
Oswald’s eyes flickered down and away in concession and Jim took advantage to scoot across until he could feel the warmth of the other man’s body, his elbow once more crooked on the back of the booth, hand falling forward so he could run a finger over Oswald’s collar and lightly up the back of his hair as he leaned in.  
  
“Better make sure my apology’s a good one, huh?” He circled his finger in Oswald’s hair. “I’m sorry that when I said you deserved me in the filthiest way possible that I made it sound like a bad thing.”  
  
He paused for the length of a breath, his finger continuing its slow, sensual circle on the back of Oswald’s skull.  
  
“It’s a fucking _ excellent_ thing,” Jim said. “Because what the hell do you think I was after? Chocolates and roses? Romance and bubble baths?”  
  
“There’s nothing wrong with a good bath,” Oswald whispered.  
  
“Depends who’s in there with you.” Jim risked running his tongue up the edge of Oswald’s ear. “I assure you I can make a good bath _very_ wrong.”  
  
“Jim…”  
  
“That’s better.” Jim nudged the side of his head and drew his earlobe into his mouth, a slow, promising suck. “If we’re back to first names does that mean I’m forgiven?”  
  
“Maybe if you keep doing that.”  
  
Jim returned his attention to Oswald’s ear, tongue and teeth and a carefully controlled whisper of breath as he licked and sucked, slow and purposeful, enjoying the way Oswald began to shift in his seat, the antsy shuffle of someone too turned on to check himself. And then he shifted too much, ear turned away so that Jim was no longer looking at the side of his head, but right into his eyes.  
  
His pupils had grown wide, rimmed by a ring of ice blue iris. The split second dip in the direction of Jim’s lips was an entirely unnecessary hint toward what he wanted.  
  
But as Oswald tipped his mouth toward him, Jim pulled his chin back, pressed his forehead hard against Oswald’s, the hand on the back of his head curling through the strands of his hair.  
  
“Not here.”  
  
Oswald’s breath was as much of a plea as the way he was looking at Jim and for a moment Jim thought of giving in – but then Oswald had pulled away, was sliding out along the seat and standing, turning for a moment and giving Jim a look for which there was only one interpretation.  
  
Jim managed a hasty count to fifty, forced himself to take a last swig of his wine and practically sprinted across the floor and out through the velvet curtain. As he turned for the bathroom, a hand came out of nowhere, fisting in the knot of his tie and pulling him, hard, behind the unattended desk of the cloakroom.  
  
Well, not unattended entirely. The person whose job it was to swap coats for tickets was lying unconscious on the floor behind the desk.  
“What did you –”  
  
“Just ether.” Oswald towed him back from the desk and into the darkness of the rails of leather jackets and fur collars, deeper still until they hit the back wall, out of sight of the corridor and anyone come to reclaim their coat.  
  
Oswald smacked up against the wall, still holding Jim by the knot of his tie, pulling him in closer until Jim braced his arms, caging Oswald between them, stopping him from drawing any closer.  
  
“Did you want something?” Jim raked Oswald over with a gaze, enjoying the restless roll of his hips and his inability to breathe at anything like a normal rate.  
  
“Jim Gordon if you don’t kiss me –”  
  
“You’ll what?” Jim brought his face so close he could feel Oswald’s every breath, his nose brushing against his cheek so that his question came spoken into his lips. “You’ll gut me?”  
  
Oswald laughed, a low, self-aware chuckle that Jim stopped with a chaste peck on the lips. The effect was as Jim had hoped, Oswald opening his mouth, pushing forward for more as Jim drew away.  
  
“Patience.”  
  
He watched Oswald wrestle with a surge of irritation – a look familiar from so many conversations as cop and criminal. But that wasn’t who they were now, in the dim light of an empty cloakroom, with only lust for company.  
  
“Unknot your cravat.”  
  
Jim watched as those slender fingers reached up to pull the glittering pin from the knot of his cravat and drop it into the top pocket of his jacket, then make quick work of the material at his throat, tucking that into the same pocket.  
  
“Unbutton your shirt.”  
  
This time Jim kept his eyes on Oswald’s, riding a swell of anticipation. He waited until Oswald had unbuttoned his shirt to where it met his waistcoat.  
  
“Stop.” Oswald’s fingers remained on the last button, waiting for further instruction. “Place your palms flat against the wall.”  
  
Jim listened for the tremble of breath, the tell-tale swallow of someone as nervous as they were excited and watched as the most powerful criminal in Gotham did exactly as he was told.  
  
Reaching in, Jim folded back the edges of Oswald’s shirt, exposing a soft, skin-pale V of chest and collarbone. Nothing but the shadows of his bones and a sparse smattering of hair.  
  
_Shit_. Bite, kiss, lick, suck… so many options, all so appealing.  
  
He started kissing from where Oswald’s collarbone met his shoulder, edging in toward the middle, dipping his tongue into the pool of shadow directly below the Adam’s apple and revelling in the gasp he drew for it.  
  
Slowly, Jim worked his way up Oswald’s neck, dragging his lower lip up his throat, breathing in the smell of his skin, letting it roll through his senses until he gave in to the temptation of a bite when his reached Oswald’s jawbone.  
  
Oswald hissed through his teeth and Jim bit him again, harder. There came the scratch of nails against the wall, but Oswald’s hands stayed palm to the wall and Jim smiled into the tender skin below his ear.  
  
“Good boy.”  
  
“I don’t usually take that as a compliment…” Words that dissolved into a moan as Jim sucked his earlobe. Finding out how sensitive his ears were had been a helpful discovery and Jim kept him there, drawing uneven breaths and the suggestion of a whimper from his lips.  
  
Pulling away, he rode the high that came from seeing the size of Oswald’s pupils, the half-open mouth, primed and ready for a kiss that Jim was finding hard to delay. Reaching up he smoothed his thumb over Oswald’s lower lip.  
  
“I’m going to ruin this mouth of yours.”  
  
The tip of Oswald’s tongue flashed out, running a line along the edge of Jim’s nail, for which he received a warning pinch.  
  
Taking his hand away, Jim gazed at the rude pink swell of that lower lip and gave in.  
  
He ran the tip of his tongue across Oswald’s lip, nudging his mouth open so Jim could kiss him as he’d been wanting to all evening, tongue sweeping over Oswald’s, one hand running across the exposed skin of Oswald’s chest, the other curling round the back of his head, pulling him deeper into the kiss.  
  
As Oswald kissed him back, it was with care and caution, more lip than tongue. A kiss that had Jim leaning in deeper, more desperately, trying to coax the same desire from Oswald because wasn’t that what he felt too? Didn’t he fucking _want_ this?  
  
The harder Jim pressed, the more passive Oswald became, until Jim pulled back with a frustrated growl, breathing hard against the frustration building inside him…  
  
And saw that Oswald’s hands were still against the wall. Not pressed flat as before, but rolling in restless waves, wrist flexing before his fingers curled, nails digging into the flock of the wallpaper. Dragging his gaze up from his hands, Jim studied the man in front of him, the heave of his chest and desperate rush of breath, eyes wild with wanting, even as he forced himself to suppress it.  
  
Waiting for Jim’s permission.  
  
Fuck. It was tempting to keep him locked in there, see how much control Jim (and Oswald) really had. Jim held him there a little longer, pinned with nothing more than a look.  
  
“You can let go now.”  
  
The words had barely left his lips before Oswald was on him, hands flying from the wall to run greedily up Jim’s neck, into his hair as he brought his face to Jim’s – a hungry, open-mouthed lunge of pent-up desire finally allowed free. Oswald’s kiss was greedy, tongue bold and insistent, clouding Jim’s delusions of control as he kissed Oswald back without restraint. Hands in Jim’s hair pulled him so close that noses squashed against cheeks, their breathing loud and ragged and Jim’s hands ran up the back of Oswald’s jacket, frustrated by the smooth silk of his waistcoat when he yearned for warm skin.  
  
He should have made him strip before they got this far, should have known that this would happen, that he would lose himself the second he set Oswald free.  
  
Nothing for it but to give in, to drown in the taste of Oswald’s mouth and the feel of his tongue. For seconds, for the length of a lifetime, nothing else existed, then Oswald curled his tongue up to run it along the roof of Jim’s mouth, bringing out a shiver of surprise, before pulling away and giving Jim a look that could only be described as devilish.  
  
“Consider yourself forgiven, Jim Gordon.”  
  
That smile, that look.  
  
Leaning in, Jim pulled Oswald’s bottom lip between his own to suck for a moment before the need to taste more of him became too much and he was breathing him in again and his tongue was in his mouth and they were kissing, less fevered than before, but more intense, more hungry – just _more_.  
  
Jim wanted everything of him and to take it now, all at once.  
  
Pulling back, Jim rested a heavy hand on Oswald’s shoulder, the other dropping to where he’d been growing uncomfortably hard in his pants.  
  
“Get on your knees.”  
  
Oswald twitched a shake of the head. “I don’t kneel.”  
  
Running his hand from shoulder, to neck, to hook a thumb in front of his ear, fingernails scraping Oswald’s scalp, Jim gave him a warning glare.  
  
“When I tell you to do something, it happens.” His thumb pressed against cheek bone. “And I believe it’s my turn for something to happen.”  
  
But Oswald reached up and pushed Jim’s hand away with a scowl.  
  
“When I say I don’t kneel, I mean I _can't_.” The reproach in his look was hot enough to scald. “It’s not comfortable.”  
  
The apology sat on Jim’s tongue, a sorry heavy with shame.  
  
“OK.” Jim nodded. “No kneeling.”  
  
It was the best he could manage without destroying that last little illusion of control.  
  
Oswald’s scowl held a moment longer before his expression shifted into something more wily and he leaned back against the wall. Reaching up he ran his hands down Jim’s tie, straightening it, his slight frown no doubt a judgement on the quality of the material.  
  
“I don’t kneel, but there are other things I can do for you.” His gaze flickered up to Jim’s, eyes bright with suggestion.  
  
“Go on.”  
  
Oswald’s cocked his brows and pursed his lips in a smile.  
  
“I can let you fuck me –” Jim’s breath caught in his throat. “– up against this wall.”  
  
God, the _thought_ of it… “Now?”  
  
“Now.” Oswald tugged Jim’s tie a little too tight. “Assuming that your decision to ignore the offer of an expensive suit didn’t extend as far as ignoring the offer of some expensive lube?”  
  
Automatically Jim reached for an inside pocket that wasn’t there, a groan escaping as he realised his jacket was all the way back at the table.  
  
Oswald tutted, but Jim hooked a hand behind his neck and dived in for a kiss, turned on by the promise of something he’d not thought was on the cards, not yet anyway, while they were still working out the steps to this new dance. He thought of how he wanted him, back to the wall so Jim could see his face, watch the moment he entered him, read his reactions to get the most pleasure from what they were doing, suck on his collarbone, bite his lip and drive him utterly wild…  
  
“Jim.” Oswald pulled away, breathless from the kiss. “Go get the lube. Now please.”  
  
“We could make it work –” Jim’s brain wasn’t functioning on much more than white noise and lust.  
  
“No lube, no fucking way.” Oswald hissed into his lips before pressing a quick kiss on Jim’s mouth and shoving him away. “Am I making myself clear?”  
  
Jim feasted on the sight of him for a moment more – the dishevelled mess Jim had made of his shirt and the red patch of skin on his jaw where his teeth had scored the skin – then he turned away and hurried back out into the main room, knocking into the back of someone’s chair in his haste. All his thoughts were of what would happen when he got back into the cloakroom, of Oswald Cobblepot giving himself up to Jim, anticipating the rush of an orgasm powered by the high of having complete control.  
  
His jacket was slumped carelessly across the bench of the booth and Jim had to reach in to pick it up, patting the folds of material to check the little silver tube was there. His phone wasn’t and since Jim had no intention of coming back to the table once he left, he looked around to find it sitting on the table where he’d left it after he’d shown Oswald that photo of him in the suit.  
  
As he picked it up the screen lit up with missed calls and messages that had come through.  
  
Frowning, Jim hit voicemail, phone to his ear, stomach dropping as Harvey’s voice came on the line, shouting over the sound of a siren.  
  
“Jim! Where the hell are you? We’ve got news on Penguin. Some exclusive club that’s just for rich suits and richer criminals – we’re headed there now –” a broken off muffle “– corner of 58th and –” he cut out a second but it wasn’t like Jim needed to know the address when he was standing right there “– not far from your place. Get your ass there and help me catch that slippery son of a bitch.”  
  
There weren’t enough ways to curse that call – and the fact that he’d not heard it ten minutes ago, when it would have been useful.  
  
Even as he pocketed his phone there came a shout from beyond the velvet curtain, and Jim glanced down the room to see Butch was already off his bar stool, papers magicked away. Before he slipped out through the door to the cellar, Butch’s gaze swept the room and settled on Jim.  
  
No way of explaining that this had nothing to do with him, not from here. All he could do was absorb the threat in that glare and watch Butch vanish from the scene seconds before the cops entered it.  
  
“This is the GCPD, stay where you are.” The shout came from one of the three uniforms, guns out as Harvey followed behind, eyes darting about beneath the brim of his hat, peering at the astonished faces of the diners who’d thought a meal here meant privacy.  
  
Jim straightened his jacket, put his hands on his hips and waited for Harvey to notice him.  
  
It definitely took longer than it should.  
  
“Jim!” Harvey hurried over, frowning at the empty table, then at the man next to it. “You got my messages?”  
  
“No other reason I’d be here.” He turned to look at the empty booth. “Looks like someone tipped him off…”  
  
“No way,” Harvey turned back as if looking for someone. “Is there a Frank here? Someone get me Frank.”  
  
“Who’s –” But Frank had been found, was making his way through the tables and Jim fought to keep his face straight as he recognised the waiter Oswald had threatened with a knife. The guy who’d been attending their table all evening…  
  
Harvey stepped away to talk to him and Jim met Frank’s eye with the most menacing glare he possessed.  
  
“Jim?” Harvey summoned him and Jim stepped over, eyes on the waiter, who visibly cowered. “This guy says Penguin ate at this table –”  
  
“I know. Why do you think I’m standing next to it?”  
  
Harvey frowned, puzzled but persistent, “What I was _saying_ was that he left twenty minutes ago and hasn’t come back.”  
  
“I told you, he’s gone.”  
  
“He went _that_ way and we’ve had uni on the front door for the last half hour. Franks says there's only three other ways out of here. Through the cellar –” Harvey pointed to the bar “– the kitchen –” the far side of the club “– or the fire exit.” He nodded to the discreet glow of the exit sign beyond the next booth. “Penguin’s still in the building. We’ve got him cornered.”  
  
Jim swallowed, eyes flitting to Frank who looked like he regretted giving Harvey his name.  
  
“What are we waiting for?” Jim started for the front of the room before he felt a hand on his arm.  
  
“Are you going to trap him with a stern look and angry words?” Harvey frowned at his empty hands and Jim smiled, thinking that he’d have more luck with that method than a gun. A smile that faded when he reached for the holster at the back of his pants and found it empty.  
  
“Shit.” Oswald must have taken it.  
  
“You came here unarmed? What’s wrong with you?” Harvey rolled his eyes and clicked his fingers for one of the uniforms to hand over his gun and cuffs, then headed for the curtain. “Let’s go catch our bird.”  
  
The two of them slipped passed the curtain and Jim pointed to Harvey, then further along the corridor to the bathrooms, nodding toward the cloakroom for himself and ignoring Harvey’s whispered, “_Don't you want me to watch your back?_” The last thing Jim wanted was Harvey to see the state he’d left Oswald in. Slipping past the unconscious attendant and into the darkness of the room beyond, Jim kept his gun up. He didn’t know how the hell he was going to get out of this, but the last thing he planned on doing was trusting that decision to Oswald.  
  
The room was long, narrow and dark and Jim had to take a fair few steps in before he saw Oswald, still standing there at the back wall.  
  
But not as Jim had left him.  
  
His shirt was buttoned, cravat retied and hair combed back into a more artful mess than Jim’s fingers had created. In his hand was the gun from Jim’s holster, the barrel aimed firmly at his chest.  
  
“I see our plans have changed, Detective Gordon.”  
  
“Oswald…” Jim sounded as resigned as he felt.  
  
“You’ll call me _Penguin_.” An instruction delivered with a vehemence that would have made Jim flinch just five minutes before.  
  
“Unless you’re prepare to shoot me while there’s a bunch of cops out there looking for you, I suggest you lower your weapon.” Jim stole forward, aware that Oswald’s aim remained steady – and that he hadn’t yet pulled the hammer back.  
  
“Is this an arrest, Detective?”  
  
“It’s a request for you to lower your weapon.”  
  
Oswald rolled his eyes and pocketed Jim’s gun. “Happy now?”  
  
“You know I’m going to have to take that off you.”  
  
“Try me.”  
  
“Osw-”  
  
But he’d closed the distance between them in a single broken stride, breastbone thudding against the barrel of Jim’s gun. “Right now, to you, it’s Penguin.”  
  
Jim swallowed, hating the look in Oswald’s eyes, an unhinged fury that would never bend to Jim’s will the way lust would.  
  
“I need you to come down to the station for questioning.”  
  
“And if I refuse?”  
  
“Then I’ll have to arrest you.” Jim nudged his gun into Oswald’s chest.  
  
“_Ha!_” Oswald’s grin was wide and without any humour. “So this _is_ an arrest.”  
  
“Only if you make it one.”  
  
Oswald’s hand came up, pushed the gun from between their bodies and stepped in closer, eyes all over Jim’s face, nostrils flaring with every tightly controlled breath.  
  
“You remember my offer?” Oswald whispered.  
  
Jim nodded. Even now it was all he could think about.  
  
“Then let me make this very clear –” Oswald reached up to run his fingers through the shaved hair at the back of Jim’s head, pulling him close, their foreheads pressed together as he glared into Jim’s eyes. “You can either fuck me, _or_ you can arrest me.”  
  
He gave a little shrug and let go.  
  
“You can’t have both.”  
  
And he held his hands up, wrists together, ready to be cuffed.  
  
“So which is it?”

__

__

xxx

Jim returned his firearm to the rightful owner before he took the wheel of the squad car that Harvey was sitting in.  
  
“So I’ve been thinking…” Harvey started up, leaning back against the door to watch Jim fire the engine.  
  
“Sounds dangerous.”  
  
“I called you what? Ten, maybe twenty minutes before we showed. But there was a car out front from before that and they didn’t say anything about seeing you arrive.”  
  
“Because they didn’t,” Jim said, eyes flicking up to the rearview mirror. In the back sat Oswald Cobblepot, hands cuffed behind his back, eyes fixed on Jim’s. “You think I can walk into a place like that without an invitation?”  
  
“No,” Harvey said, “I don’t think that.”  
  
When Jim slid him a look, Harvey raised his eyebrows and tilted his head in the direction of the back seat, the question clear.  
  
“I went in the back, Harvey, through the kitchen.”  
  
“Who was your dinner date, Penguin?” Harvey twisted round, but Oswald’s gaze remained fixed on the rearview mirror.  
  
“Excuse me if I decline to answer any of your questions until we’re down at the station.”  
  
Harvey grunted, but gave it up. The car pulled out into the traffic flowing in the direction of the precinct and Jim checked his mirror. Caught Oswald’s eye and found it hard to look anywhere else. His face was set in a look of steely contempt, mouth a sulky little smear of lips, eyes hard and bright and giving little away.  
  
“Jim!”  
  
He slammed on the brakes and narrowly avoided running a red.  
  
“Should I be the one driving here?” Harvey asked.  
  
Jim thought of how much he’d had to drink and wondered if that might not be a good idea. Although knowing Harvey…  
  
“It’s fine,” Jim said. But almost as soon as he said it, his eyes were drawn to the reflection of the man in the back.  
  
“Then could you maybe actually drive instead of looking in your goddamn mirror?”  
  
“Right. Just making sure we’re not being followed…” Jim pulled away from the lights and Harvey twisted round.  
  
“By who?”  
  
“Someone who doesn’t want Penguin to get as far as the station.” Jim was just spitballing, but something in Oswald’s face changed, a satisfied smirk tugging at the edges of his eyes and mouth.  
  
“Could you maybe look at the road once in a while?” Harvey grumbled. “Or did you just arrest the guy so you –”  
  
His sentence ended in a juddering smash. Something heavy hit the nose of the squad car, the force wrenching the wheel from Jim’s hands. They span through the traffic in a blur of lights and horns and horror, hitting the kerb at exactly the wrong angle and flipping over, the glass of Jim’s window shattering in the roll, pellets of glass peppering the driver’s side as he scrunched his eyes tight and prayed he’d make it, aware of how hard his head hit the wheel, how everything had come to a stop and still he hurt…  
  
Forcing his eyes open, he saw Harvey, unconscious but breathing, hat still, miraculously jammed on his head, and in the back: Oswald.  
  
It was hard to focus, to process what he was seeing, but as he watched, Oswald pulled his hands out from behind his back, cuffs clattering onto the roof of the up-turned car. A moment later and he’d squirmed round, face pressing up against the mesh that divided cops from criminals, the tie pin Jim had watched him take from his cravat earlier – the one Jim hadn’t noticed was missing – glittering between his fingers.  
  
“If you’ll excuse me, my ride’s here.” Oswald gave Jim a pitying look. “It would have been a lot easier if you’d chosen the first option, Detective Gordon.”  
  
“Oswald –”  
  
“Not to you,” he hissed. “Not any more.”  
  
Then someone else was levering the back door open and Oswald Cobblepot was gone.


End file.
